An Intermission In Life
by jedi4ever11
Summary: Post Reichenbach Falls. Sherlock goes back to Baker Street to give John a final note. "But think of it as an intermission my dear Watson, a short intermission before the play rolls on again" slight John/Sherlock


This is my first Sherlock fanfic, I hope everyone likes it ^_^ I would appreciate reviews but I'm not begging, I hope I wrote the characters well, I'm not the greatest writing other people's character. May the Force be with you my fellow Detectives.

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"I can do it sweetie." Mrs. Hudson said. Her soft eyes scanned over John's. "You go back to your sister's." John shook his head and grabbed his cane from the chair, "No." he muttered, "I'll get the rest of the things from the apartment, I left my computer up there anyways." He turned away from her and limped up the stairs back to his flat.

John fumbled with his keys and stuck one of the small silver ones into the lock on the door. He twisted it to the right and pushed open the door.

The flat had been mostly packed up. The chairs were left, a picture on the wall, Sherlock's skull-friend still on the mantle and the yellow smiley face still spray painted on the wall.

John's heart dropped. His chest ached and his head seem the swell. He closed the door behind him and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Whenever the police are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me."

John laughed for a moment. His memory of Sherlock and his phrases that sounded like a hundred-year-old book quote filled his mind. Sherlock was the type of man who should have lived centuries before 2010 and at the same time should have lived far into the future. He was a genius, no matter what Sherlock said to him in his final call, to John, Sherlock Holmes was fantastic.

He walked up to the mantle and grabbed Sherlock's skull friend. John's hand shook, the weight of the human skull made his throat close up. "Oh Sherlock…" he muttered, "Where are you…?"

Something made a noise from the left of them that made him jump out of his skin.

John sat the skull back on the mantle and limped as fast as he could to Sherlock's bedroom.

His hand trembled on the handle of his cane as he opened the door.

The idea of going back in Sherlock's room gave him the chills. Fear ran rapid through his veins. He closed his eyes and pulled open the door.

This room hadn't been packed yet. No one could force themselves to go inside. Everything was still as is. The bed was half made from the day he had left. There was a bookshelf on one side filled with dusty old books about tobacco leaves and psychology of apes along with a few dozen of other books that he had never thought existed.

There was no evidence that something had fallen in the room and the feeling he had about being in this room left John heading back towards the door.

Something caught his vision causing him to stop from grabbing the door handle out of the corner of his eye on the crisp white pillow closest to him was a folded piece of worn paper.

John turned slowly and looked down at it. He reached down and picked it up, unfolding it at its center.

Written in curly black ink was a page long note written in Sherlock's handwriting. John's throat closed up. He forced himself to open his eyes to look at it but he was afraid of what it said. When it had been written? Who it was written to?

John couldn't find the strength to unfold the paper. His arms felt like they weighed a ton. He felt sweat trickling down his forehead, and suddenly the room felt as if it was closing in on him and the air was being sucked out.

"**_NO_**!"

John threw the note on the ground and brought his knees up to his chest, gasping for air. "I can't… no…"

After a while he looked back down at the floor. The worn paper lay glaring back like a demon. Written in thick black ink in the delicate cursive pattern of Sherlock's handwriting wrote, _Dear John,_

John sat forward, and with a shaky hand picked up the note.

_Dear John,_

_If you are reading this, that clearly means you are in my room. That's a rule, don't go into my room. And look what you've done. I know why you're in my room though. I'm dead, aren't I? How do I know that? You are never in my room, except when I was drugged by The Woman, and I yelled at you for days afterwards. I am not sick, or drugged, which means I'm dead, and Moriarty is as well. I died John, that's all you need to know, I've died and to everyone else I am a fake, and don't tell anyone otherwise for your own safety._

_You do not understand how important this is John, you cannot let anyone know of this letter, burn it if you must. Moriarty will find you, he has eyes everywhere._

_John, do me a favor. A very important favor. Take care of Mrs. Hudson for me. She can very well take care of herself but just… just watch her for me. Make sure she is alright. John… she's like a mother to me, and though she may not admit she needs help sometimes and I can't do it now._

_Tell Molly to part her hair to the left. She always looked nice that way. And next time you see Anderson, call him a dumbass, just for me._

_John, I'm sorry you couldn't have known me better, I'm sorry our time was cut short. But think of it as an intermission my dear Watson, a short intermission before the play rolls on again. _"Death is the only pure, beautiful conclusion of a great passion." – David Herbert Lawrence.

John I need to tell you something. Something important. And for God's sake if you mention this to Mycroft I will personally.

John. I left my scarf on the bed. That scarf was a gift, it's very special to me, and I love it very much. John you are my scarf, and if it's my last chance to say it… I love you, and I am not a fake.

Sincerely,

SH

And with that John wrapped Sherlock's dark navy scarf around his neck, the sent of Sherlock filled his senses and a sense of peace came over him.

Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock died with his scarf on, and his scarf was on John now. Sherlock was very much alive. And this? This is just an intermission.

"And you are my favorite jumper Sherlock."


End file.
